


The Wren Prophecy

by papergardener



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Canon Rewrite, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Magic suppressing collar, Merlin gets creative, Post-Magic Reveal, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: Despite Merlin’s gifts of magic and foresight, he could never have predicted his enslavement to a prince. Now, new to Camelot and without his magic, he must find a way to survive and fulfill a destiny he barely understands.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	The Wren Prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting this started!  
> Expect plenty of changes, both in terms of story as well as fundamental parts of the world, so if something seems different, just run with it.  
> I'm also aiming for a (slightly) more historical version. That's going to be tricky because knights, castles, and fucking stirrups didn't exist back then, but you'll still see some of those words used so it's not completely unrecognizable.  
> It's been a fun challenge, yay research!
> 
> Please enjoy :)

For a long time he watched for it in wisps of smoke, and in the movement of the stars, and woven between his dreams. Amongst the threads he saw good omens: hints of safety, prosperity, and great things to come. Yet, he wasn’t sure until the morning when he heard the calling of the wren and saw it crest out from the branches of an elder and fly west.

It was time to begin his journey.

He would go farther than he had ever ventured, far beyond his small town between the hills and the ancient forests, and the winds seemed to pull at him, beckoning. It seemed he was walking towards a grand destiny.

Yet, despite his gifts of magic and foresight, he could never have predicted that the cheerful song of the wren foretold his enslavement to a prince.

* * * 

"Has the sorcerer revealed anything yet?"

"Very little, sire.”

Prince Arthur nodded, not surprised. The young man had certainly seemed like the stubborn type, assuming it really was the same man from the marketplace earlier that day. Arthur idly rested his hand on the short sword at his side, glancing at the door at the end of the corridor where the sorcerer in question was being held and questioned. 

The whole night had been a blur. The arrival of Lady Helen’s entourage and the proceeding festivities had been hectic enough, and that was all before he had been nearly assassinated. It had caused something of a panic throughout the castle, which then spread to the lower town, that not one but two magic-users had made it past their defenses and attacked the prince. Although… that wasn’t quite true.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

“Do we know what he was doing in Camelot?” Arthur said, glaring at the door, black and forbidding in the shadows. They were in one of the deepest parts of the castle, the stone hallways always cold, damp, and dark, fitting as a place for criminals and sorcerers. “Has he named any contact in the city?”

“No, sire,” the guard said, his hand curling and uncurling around the grimy hold of his spear. “Says he’s alone, just arrived yesterday. Won’t say where he comes from, or who his family is. Apparently he’s on his way to another town for work, but he seems to be hiding something. We’ve tried, but—“

Arthur waved his hand, and the guard fell silent. This was not what he needed. The kingdom was already in a state of apprehension with war looming on the horizon with Bayard of Mercia, added onto another attack by raiders along the coast, and, to make matters worse, poor harvests throughout the lands. The last thing they needed was a sorcerer in Camelot, and now there were two. The witch, at least, was dead.

"I'd like to talk with him in private,” Arthur said.

“Of course, sire.” Again there was a reluctance, but the guard obeyed and led him down the hall. Before he undid the latch, however, he paused and turned to stare from beneath his helm. “I do want to warn you. He might seem harmless, but don’t be fooled,” the man said, grim and deeply earnest. “He is _dangerous_.”

Arthur nodded, tightening his hand on his sword pommel, sweat pricking at the back of his neck. It was a good reminder that the man in there was a pagan and a sorcerer, and as unpredictable as he was a threat. True, he hadn’t seemed very threatening when Arthur had met him the other day when the idiot had interceded in his, er, training with one of the servants, but sorcerers were known for their disguises and their deceptive ways. It was risky enough just keeping him alive, the interrogation was little more than a formality before his public execution. Hell, Arthur could run him through with his sword, call it an accident, and likely be rewarded for it.

Yet for all that, Arthur was determined to do this right. It was personal, after all. The damned sorcerer had saved his life.

Still, for a supposedly evil magician bent on destroying Camelot, he wasn’t much to look at: hardly older than Arthur himself, rather gangly and tousle-headed, and in simple peasant’s clothes. A heavy dark cloth covered his eyes with a similar principle as a falconer’s cap, making him less aggressive and less dangerous. It was said that eye-contact was required for magic, although the iron collar at his neck was what truly kept him powerless, or enough to not be a threat. The heavy collar was familiar, rusted and blackened from long use by those who had worn it to their fiery death.

The sorcerer tilted his head up when Arthur dismissed the guard and the door shut firmly behind him. “Is this the part where you torture me?” he said, twisting his shoulders back and apparently testing the rope at his wrists. “Cause I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, not that the boy could see. “And why’s that?” he asked, his hand still at the sword at his side, thumbing the worn leather.

“Bad luck,” the boy said simply, pulling harder now as if Arthur wasn’t standing right there. “And I could turn you into a goose if you try to harm me.”

“A goose?”

“Probably,” he muttered, his eyebrows crinkling from over the black cloth.

Arthur stared, trying to remind himself that this man was a dangerous, violent, no-good sorcerer. Either he was exceptionally good at playing the fool or he really was one, and it was made especially hard to tell without being able to see his eyes. So, with his sword at the ready, Arthur leaned over and pulled the cloth away.

“ _You_ ,” the man cried as soon as he saw him, shocked and seemingly offended. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was from when he had insulted Arthur the day before in the town, or from earlier that night. Either way, Arthur had to be princely about this. This was a matter of state.

“Sorcerer,” he stated coldly, holding his chin high.

The sorcerer scowled at that. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Arthur scowled right back.

Screw princeliness.

“Look, I didn’t _ask_ you to save me.”

“If this is your way of saying thanks, you’re doing a terrible job,” the sorcerer said, leaning back and giving him a look of disgust.

“It’s not! I didn’t! You…” Arthur glared at him. “Look, you can’t just go around using magic.”

“I was saving your life!”

“With magic!”

“So what?”

Arthur rubbed his face, aware of the pounding start of a headache, before sitting down opposite the sorcerer, the little stool rocking a little on the uneven floor. He leant forward, resting his elbows on the table between them, the torchlight flickering over both of them against the darker shadows in the cramped room. For a moment they just stared evenly at each other. The boy had disapproving blue eyes, but they weren’t particularly evil-looking or scheming.

Arthur frowned. “Honestly though, what pagan backwater land did you even come from that you can just use magic? You do realize magic is prohibited here? Or are you really that stupid?”

“Should I have just let her kill you, then? Cause that’s the message I’m getting. I mean, I know it’s not allowed but I figured it might be okay for, I don’t know, saving someone’s life?”

“It’s sorcery. It’s evil no matter how it’s used.” Arthur immediately pressed his lips closed as the young man gave him a level look. It was _really_ annoying that he’d saved his life, taking away that precious moral high ground. It was also, frankly, rude.

“Look,” the sorcerer said, aiming for a more reasonable tone. “Just let me go and I’ll leave and never come back. Honest! I wasn’t even supposed to be here, we can just pretend it never happened.”

“We can’t just let you _go_ ,” Arthur said incredulously. “As if we’d let you go traipsing about the countryside and cursing people—“

“Why would I even—“

“And besides,” Arthur said, glaring at the interruption. “You’re meant to burn at the stake tomorrow.”

What little color was in the boy’s cheeks quickly drained. “What?”

“It’s the law. The punishment for sorcery is execution by burning. Or stoning, for witches,” Arthur said, on recollection. He momentarily held back a sneeze from the smell of old dusty herbs tacked to the wall, presumably anti-magic charms. Most sorcerers didn't make it so far as that room, killed as soon as they were revealed, usually when attacking someone, often Arthur. “There is something I've been wondering... why did you save me? You must have known what would happen if you were caught performing magic.”

The boy blinked, momentarily distracted before staring as if Arthur was simple. “Why wouldn’t I? I knew something bad was happening, I had to at least try to help.”

_You could have just left_ , Arthur thought to say, frowning hard. If what he said was true, he hadn't even been near the great hall, but had raced from the lower streets in order to save them from the sleep enchantment. Most men would have carried on. Most men didn’t put their lives in danger to help a stranger. And a _sorcerer?_

Those who wielded magic were corrupted by it. They turned selfish, vengeful, angry and power-hungry. Evil. Demonic, even. He should have stayed away. Hell, most magic-users would have likely helped to overthrow his father and himself. Yet he had still saved Arthur’s life, and now he was going to burn for it.

Arthur quickly rose, swallowing back a hint of bitter bile before turning to leave. With his hand on the latch he paused, glancing back. “Your name… it was Myrddin or something, right?”

“It’s _Merlin_ ,” he answered, with a final glare.

Great, Arthur thought as he left, nodding to the guard. Now he had a name, and that would make it all the more difficult to see him die on his behalf.

Just… great.

* * *

The next morning Arthur woke to an annoying, overly-skittish serving boy who Arthur quickly dismissed before heading out to an annoying, overly-skittish city. Everyone had heard of the sorcerer and sorceress who had tried to murder the prince and enchanted a hundred people--an exaggeration, sure, but closer to the truth than the usual rumors.

The far better news was that the real Lady Helen had been found, apparently drugged into a stupor but quickly reviving. A serving girl had also been discovered, having been thrown against a wall by the witch the night before but was also recovering with her family. Arthur visited Lady Helen in her new set of rooms, untouched by the witch, as Gaius looked her over and Arthur made the proper inquiries and apologies. When Arthur had walked over to the window to give them some privacy, it was to see a pyre being built in the courtyard, surrounded by curious folk milling about. Arthur only had until sundown to stop it from being lit, and the day was already slipping by. He still had no idea how he was going to save a sorcerer’s life, or even if he should.

When Gaius left the room with a bow and Arthur was quick to follow. “Gaius, a word?”

The old physician paused, turning towards him in the narrow corridor. “Yes, sire?”

“You saw the sorcerer earlier,” Arthur said. “Did you think he was dangerous?”

“The boy?” Gaius said, stiffening his shoulders and glancing quickly down the corridor. Despite being the local expert on magic, he was still often reluctant to speak of it. “Of course, all magic users have the capacity to be dangerous—“

“Your personal opinion, Gaius,” Arthur said, lowering his voice. He didn’t need to hear the safe answer; he could get that anywhere.

“I had only just seen him briefly when I set the collar on him.” He paused. Arthur waited. “However… I must admit he did not seem a great threat, to either you or Camelot. It seemed he was merely trying to save your life, and the lives of everyone in the room, myself included. He did not strike me as someone dangerous or evil, far from it.”

Arthur nodded, working his jaw. It was the answer he had expected and hoped for, but it still made everything more difficult. It would be easier if he was another wicked sorcerer and could be put to death without any of this uncomfortable guilt.

“Thank you, Gaius.”

The older man gave a hunched bow, before giving him a curious look as Arthur considered the variables, how best to broach the topic with his father, and how he could reasonably do this and all in less than a day.

“Actually… one more question. I know he has on the iron collar,” Arthur said, gesturing at his own neck. “It stops his magic, right?”

“It does, yes, although not completely, not by itself. An iron collar can greatly limit one’s ability to use magic, but often can’t hold it back in its entirety.” That would be a problem. Gaius stood by in silence as Arthur considered.

“What if we were to add to it?” Arthur said, turning his hand. “Not just a collar but also add shackles to his wrists, made of the same iron. Could that stop it completely? And Is there any reason that these items couldn’t simply… stay on? Permanently.”

Gaius looked away, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I can’t see why not, although the collar was designed for temporary use. I’ve only heard of it being used for weeks at most.”

“Well then…” Arthur twisted his hand around his wrist and thought about how he was going to convince his father of treason, “we might be testing those limits.” He was getting closer, at any rate. The pyre wasn’t to be finished until sunset. There was still some time.

Yet, he couldn’t spend his whole day chasing after an answer that might not exist. The sun hurried overhead as he went through combat training and a long-winded meeting with the candle makers in town. The midday meal proved his main chance to focus on saving the damn sorcerer’s life, but he still didn’t have a good enough reason to go to his father and spare him. It would not be enough to feel guilty or beholden, and arguing that he didn’t seem that dangerous would get him nowhere.  
  


Grabbing some chicken and a wedge of bread and cheese, Arthur went to his usual place to reflect: the dragon’s lair. Or that was the rather fanciful name it was given. In reality it was just an open space of dirt and scraggly weeds in the northwest corner of the city, bordered on two sides by high boundary walls, close enough to the castle to keep watch, but far enough to not be a bother.

He watched the great winged beast from the edge of the perimeter, lined with a thick stone-and-earth blockade, blackened and crumbling after so many years. It was dangerous being so close, and being alone, but it had been years since the dragon had tried to scorch him and even then it had seemed nearly an accident.

The sun was already dipping toward the west, and he was running out of time.

“Maybe I should just let him die, Arthur said, propping his cheek on his fist. “My father certainly wants him dead. The whole city probably wants him dead. Although my father had wanted to kill you, too,” The dragon lifted his head with a clinking rattle of chains, and slowly turned to face him. Arthur met those deep yellow eyes that stared back, unblinking, strangely intelligent. “And yet here you are,” he murmured. “Twenty years later.”

A deep growl met that response. Arthur was always sure the dragon could understand him, despite that others said it was a dumb, violent beast that would kill them all given half the chance. It had been kept there for nearly all of his life as a testament to his father’s great feat of conquering the dragons and purging magic from the land.

“At least you’re not dead!” Arthur said angrily, to which the dragon growled again, straining its wings against the metal and leather binds. He tossed another piece of chicken into the air and idly watched as it snapped it up. Leaning against the railing, he wondered not only how he might stop the execution, but whether he should. Here was a sorcerer who had slipped into the city unnoticed, and powerful enough to break a curse. He could potentially destroy everything. Yet, the idiot didn’t _seem_ dangerous.

“Can I really let him die for saving me?” he muttered.

A familiar voice called out, “Are you really going to let that boy die after saving you?”

Arthur couldn’t hold back his sigh as he turned to see the king’s ward approaching with set determination visible in the way she held her head, in the quick march of her steps, and the sharp look on her face.

“Morgana,” he said wearily in greeting. “I don’t have time for whatever it is—“

“Oh?” she said, eyes flashing. “That busy, are you? I suppose you’re too good to trouble yourself over a mere boy who’s about to die. After all, he only saved your life—“

“I know!” Arthur shouted, throwing up his hands. “God above, Why does everyone keep reminding me of that.”

The dragon let out a raspy sound like laughter, and Arthur shot it a glare as it watched them with that same air of amused intelligence. Morgana glanced over as well but kept her distance, more so than Arthur.

“The king has already ordered men to prepare the pyre,” Morgana said, as if Arthur had any word in the matter. “All because of some harmless magic.”

“Harmless! That witch tried to kill me,” Arthur said, offended.

“She was grieving her son!”

“Which gives her the right to kill me?” Arthur said. It was nice having something of that moral high ground again. “Anyway, she’s not the one I have to worry about right now.”

“You? Worried about some peasant boy? A _sorcerer_?” She scoffed. “I doubt that.”

“I’ll have you know I’m going to try and save him.”

Morgana opened her mouth as if to argue, and then blinked. “You are?”

“I can’t promise,” he said quickly, holding up a hand, “but I spoke with him last night and he seems more foolish than evil. The real trouble is going to be convincing my father.”

Morgana knew the king about as well as he did, having lived with them since she was a young girl—his sister in all but blood. “Do you have a plan?” she asked, still skeptical. “Are you going to help him escape?”

“Of course not. But I’m working on something. My father is set on seeing him die, but I think… I don’t know. Doubtful that my father would be all right with a magic-user going free, he’s not allowed to be in Camelot, and I owe him a life debt, which is annoying.”

Arthur turned back to lean against the barricade. Beside him Morgana paced back and forth, murmuring There was a dull metallic clang as the beast lay down, still watching him, pulling at the shackle around its leg. Again he thought to how his father had once tried to kill this dragon as well, all those years ago. He frowned, his lips pulling tight. It felt like the answer was right in front of him. 

The dragon had been spared, despite being magic and dangerous. The king always said he was kept chained as a show of strength, and a symbol of magic made powerless, and certainly it did impress many who visited Camelot. True, a magical beast was not the same as a magic user, but Arthur had heard rumors that the last dragonlord was also to have been kept as a chained prisoner had he not escaped and been killed years ago.

It might work… it might work very well, in fact.

* * *

The Eurasian Wren

Nickname: The Druid Bird

A small, unassuming brown bird, also known as the king of birds. The Welsh word _dryw_ means both druid and wren, and it’s latin name is _regulus_ (prince or little king). The wren was also known as the _kuningilin_ ('kinglet') in Old High German, a name associated with the fable of choosing the king of birds.

In the old Celtic religion the wren was considered a great prophet in foretelling the future, and symbolized wisdom and divinity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are, chapter 1 done!
> 
> Notes on some changes form canon:
> 
> * The dragon. Where the fuck is he, what is that cave, what BS geology is this, why the FUCK would you build a city on top of a hollow mountain?? How did they even get him down there? Anyway, that’s stupid so here we are. Plus, if Uther is making the effort of keeping him alive, he might as well show him off. 
> 
> * Did we really need to see our first sorceress going around killing people? Killing the real Helen? A random serving girl? Grieving mother, fine. Make her evil? Did you have to?
> 
> One of the more frustrating parts of canon (also discussed at length at The Perilous Lands Discord) is how magic is so often shown as evil and magic-users are punished, often killed, although ostensibly we're told that it's not evil. They're more like freedom fighters against a genocidal tyrant, so thing will be a bit different on that front.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and comments/critique/questions always welcome!


End file.
